


The Drunken Turret

by wyntera



Series: Dungeons And Noodle Dragons AU [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: D&DAU, Dungeons & Dragons, Forgotten Realms - Freeform, M/M, PathfinderAU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-19
Updated: 2017-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-15 23:09:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11241213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyntera/pseuds/wyntera
Summary: McHanzo Week Day 2 Prompt: Canon Divergence // *AU*Finding a safe place to bed down for the night is tough for an adventurer in the best of times. It's much harder for a group like theirs. But maybe they've found just the hole in the wall that has everything they need.





	The Drunken Turret

They set out before first light, the cloud cover just as heavy as it has been the past five days, just as it nearly always is on this side of the Spine of the World. Unlike the week and the handful of weeks before that, however, the travel is not silent. McCree is back to his talkative self, babbling on about one thing or another. Mostly pointed at Hanzo, which he is sure his brother and the monk find odd. Especially since Hanzo feels inclined to respond, and at length.

If Genji finds it weird that he and McCree have made amends, he does not say. Most likely he is just grateful the rift within their party has been repaired.

After their whispered confessions last night, Hanzo and McCree stayed awake in their perch and talked the hours away about everything and nothing at all. Relief made their tongues loose, joy made their smiles freely given. Before they dropped down to gather their gear and wake the others, McCree had held him close and together they shared long, thorough kisses. Promises that left Hanzo weak-kneed as he climbed from the tree. It had been a struggle after to keep his face neutral and not grin like a loon in front of Genji and Zenyatta.

Hanzo is sure that had he fallen asleep, he would have awoken thinking last night was nothing but a dream. Perhaps he still will when they bed down tonight. Oh, how he looks forward to tonight.

 

\---

 

The town they first reach is less than welcoming.

Gern Malduhr is hardly more than a collection of stone and pine homes arranged around the base of a mountain mine. The two hundred or so dwarves and humans living there have carved out a life for themselves on the wrong side of the Spine, struggling to keep their families safe from the harsh North and also compete with the more prosperous Mirabar over the range. It is a town full of hard working, honest folk.

Untrusting of outsiders. Downright hostile toward the monstrous.

McCree tries his best in his human guise, venturing forward while the rest wait in the thick woods, far enough that the guard cannot see them and get ideas. When he returns it is with a dark scowl on his face. The town folk were helpful enough to sell him rations, and a few even offered him the shelter of a hay-filled outbuilding for the night. Him alone. The rest of his companions were not welcome, and it would be best if they move along.

“One of the gate guards said somethin’ about an inn not far from here,” McCree says, shouldering his heavier pack once again. “‘Bout half a mile west. Said we might have better luck there.”

“It could be a trap,” Hanzo points out. “If they are so wary of outsiders.”

McCree tilts his head up and looks at the mountain, now fully blocking the sun from view. “It’s only half a mile. We can check it out and if it don’t feel right we’ll find somewhere to bed down. Let’s just hope the weather stays on our side.”

Hanzo shivers involuntarily and moves to keep pace as McCree sets out at point. They have been forced to spend a few nights out in the open, but this far up North it is ill-advised at best. And sharing body heat to live through the night is not nearly as titillating as one would imagine.

Despite his worries no ambush comes and they find their destination by dusk. The face of the building is nothing more than a store front carved directly from the sheer mountainside with reinforced windows to indicate a first and second floor. The doorway is fortified, against the weather or from attack Hanzo is not sure, with two torches burning on either side of the entryway.

Standing out front in the middle of the clearing before it is a stone and metal sign that is deceptively clean but for a layer of snow on top.  _ The Drunken Turret.  _ The name is listed twice, in Dwarvish and in Common, Dwarvish on top of course. Next to the sign is a decorative metal statue of what looks like some sort of crooked turret.

“This must be the place,” McCree says from the treeline. He smooths down his red serape so he does not look quite so disheveled. “Suppose I’ll go check it out.”

Hanzo reaches out and grabs McCree by the arm before he even realizes he has moved. It makes the man pause and meet his eyes. “Tread carefully,” he says, releasing McCree and tucking his hand back under his own cloak. He pointedly does not blush, nor acknowledge his brother’s confused stare.

“Nothin’ to worry about,” McCree assures.

They watch silently as McCree strikes out across the clearing toward the building. His progress is hampered by the deep snow, and he makes straight for the door rather than carefully skirting closer. It brings him within range of the sign.

Without warning the turret whirs to life, the clanking sound of cogs and gears filling the still evening air, and it rotates two giant barrels toward the gunslinger. “McCree!” Hanzo shouts, charging forward as best he can in the snow and drawing his bow. It is too late, though. There is nothing he can do, no way he could reach McCree in time to shield him, and the sign blocks a clear shot of the construct. He can see McCree pull his revolver but too late, too late.

But he is not shot like they expect. Instead a beam of light shines on him from a crystal embedded between the barrels. It makes McCree shine golden for five seconds, then flicks off. The turret then clicks, twists, and resumes its original position.

McCree looks down at his arms, flexing his hands as if to test if he has been injured. “What in tarnation--?”

The reinforced door flies open with a bang and a dwarven man strides out, warhammer in one hand and, surprisingly, a metal claw where the other should be. Other than that he is dressed down in work clothes with a heavy apron on, his long blond hair tied in braids on both his head and his impressive beard. He stops just outside the rock overhang of the establishment and stares at the group intensely, McCree by himself before the sign and the others just out of the treeline.

“Well?” the dwarf demands gruffly. “Whatcha waitin’ for? Come on out where I can see ya.” When none of them make to move, he shakes his head and brings his hammer up to rest on his shoulder. “If you could get a move on, I’d like to get back inside. Yer lettin’ me heat out. Don’t be shy, now, let ole Agnes take a gander at you.”

“Agnes?” McCree finally blurts, confusion written all over his face.

“My construct,” the man says. He must decide this is a topic worth discussion because he walks out to the gunslinger, ignoring the snow up to his knees. “Agnes is my early warning system. A beauty, isn’t she? Let’s me know who I’m dealing with before I’m dealing with ‘em.” He looks up at McCree’s face and does a double take before huffing out a grunt of a laugh. “You can drop the glamour, son, I already know you’re a tiefling.”

The glamour stays in place, though McCree is suitably shocked. “How do you--?”

“Agnes, like I said.” The dwarf taps the construct lovingly with his claw hand. “She sees through illusions. And intentions. I’m not out to judge, but I run a civil establishment. You lot are welcome to stay but I don’t abide by liars and secrets. You come into my inn, you come as yourselves. Agreed?”

McCree tugs the hat from his head and holds it over his heart as the glamour over his features fades, the tan skin turning rust red and horns sprouting from his hairline. “Agreed,” he says with a genuine smile. He offers a hand. “Jesse McCree.”

“Torbjörn Lindholm at your service,” he replies, leaning his hammer against Agnes so he can return the gesture with a firm shake, grasping McCree’s forearm just as the tiefling does his own. “What you got, four of you? Plenty of room. Even for the big spidery one. Come on now, don’t be shy.”

Hanzo waits for McCree to wave them closer before reluctantly stepping into the clearing. This is not the sort of reception any of them are used to. And this dwarf, Torbjörn, is much different than the others of his kind just through the wood.

Behind him Genji sticks close, close enough that if Hanzo stopped suddenly he would probably be knocked to the snow. Torbjörn watches the three approach with mild interest and gives them a once-over. “What have we here? A drow, a drider, and a warforged? What a motley crew.” He gives Agnes a hard tap and the turret activates again, rotating around and scanning the three of them in the same gold glow. When it happens this time a matching glow emits from the dwarf’s eyes, both lights flicking out simultaneously. “Good, good, that’s settled. When was the last time you boys ate?”

“Are we countin’ trail rations?” McCree asks. 

Torbjörn laughs and begins to lead them inside. “A hearty stew it is. I’ve had a pot simmering since this morning. Let me show your lodgings, first.”

 

\---

 

A light knock brings Hanzo to the door of his room for the night, Genji on the other side. His brother’s massive spider body barely fits in the hallway. His furthest back legs are propped up on the opposite wall rather than the floor. Hanzo will never quite grow used to the juxtoposition of Genji’s mostly normal upper half--for now clothed in a simple emerald tunic and silver jewelry--and his monstrous lower half. There is certainly no mistaking his brother and his guilt-ridden face. “Hanzo,” he greets.

“Genji. Is something the matter?” Hanzo asks, noting the careful frown.

“I wanted to make sure you were truly comfortable with our sleeping arrangements,” Genji says, shifting forward and bracing a hand on the doorframe. He is too large to easily fit into the room itself. There is a reason Torbjörn offered him one of the larger rooms with a wider entryway. “Zenyatta will still gladly switch with you if you wish.”

“Nonsense,” Hanzo says, turning back to address his appearance in the looking glass over the simple dresser. It had been weeks since he last saw himself in anything other than the hand mirror he carries; perhaps a wash-down will be in order later tonight, but for now he is just glad to have the chance to work any knots from his long hair. “I am not blind to your desires, brother. The two of you would obviously like some time alone, and you have put up with my company plenty lately. It is no trouble.”

Genji glances down the hall behind him and when he looks back he smiles. “Alright, maybe. But you and McCree...you have made peace?”

“We have.” And then some, Hanzo thinks. “So we shall be fine on our own. Please, do not concern yourself with me. We are safe and comfortable for the foreseeable future. Let us enjoy it.”

“A fine idea,” Genji replies, smile morphing into a grin that Hanzo has not seen often in quite some time. He is glad to see it returning more and more. “I shall meet you downstairs, then. Do not be long; the dwarf said he might have something to suit our exotic tastes and I will not be saving anything for you if you are late.”

“Rude of you,” Hanzo chuckles, waving him off. He waits until Genji scuttles away before looking at himself in the mirror again.

Hair combed out and left loose on his shoulders, face cleaned of the thin film of grime that clings on any journey, he looks...not bad. The soft cobalt tunic he wears is not nearly as fine as the leathers and silks he wore in the House Shimada, but he likes how he is now. Without adornment, without titles, without the weight of any responsibility save ones he has chosen for himself. Over a year on the run and living on the road, and yet he has never looked healthier and happier in his life.

His eyes catch on McCree’s pack in the mirror and he bites his lip. After bringing up their things McCree did not wait around, quickly abandoning his cloak and armor then heading down for a much needed drink, for once leaving his wings exposed. He said he wanted to make nice with their host, probably hoping to weasel a discount or find out what other wares he has to offer before they settle for the evening. It would have been nice to share words with him before they joined the others, but Hanzo thinks, maybe, perhaps, McCree had been a little nervous. Nervous about the thought of them sleeping alone, together. The shy glances he got the few minutes they were alone strengthen that thought, and also make Hanzo feel emboldened. If McCree is nervous, the jitters in his own stomach do not feel quite so silly.

With that in mind, he slips his dagger into his boot sheath and locks their door.

The lounge of  _ The Drunken Turret  _ is spacious and far more welcoming than the outside would have one believe. Sure, the floors are solid stone, as are the walls and the ceiling, but the inner supports are built with strong pine and forged steel struts. The open floor is dominated by a large wooden table big enough to seat twenty easily. More comfortable chairs are collected around the massive fireplace where a blaze already burns bright. A collection of kettles and pots hang from the rack and spit over the fire, and whatever boils inside puts out the most amazing aroma that has Hanzo’s stomach growling. It has been ages since they had a decent meal.

Zenyatta and McCree are seated across from each other at one end of the long table, the one closest to the heat of the fire. Unable to sit on the bench, Genji has taken up the head of the table and folded his legs underneath him so he can rest his spider abdomen on the floor. There are four flagons and a few bottles set before them so Hanzo assumes one is for him. The one next to McCree.

The topic of conversation seems to be McCree’s wings, with Genji and Zenyatta grilling him on how exactly he kept them hidden all this time. He wonders if they think it odd that he does not seem shocked. “Ah, here you are,” McCree says when he spots Hanzo. His suspicions are confirmed when he pushes the extra drink more into the empty space at the table next to him. “Torbjörn is bringing up some dinner from the storeroom. You should see the place! He’s got enough food to last five winters down there.”

“You have already had a tour of the storeroom?” Hanzo asks, stepping over the long bench to sit by McCree’s side. “Working fast, I see.”

McCree turns an impish smile his way. “Just my natural charm.”

“Or the dwarf has not had decent company in weeks and just wants to talk to whoever will listen,” Genji offers. Then he leans forward. “Did you know about the wings? Imp has had them all along!”

“McCree came clean about it,” Hanzo says, offering nothing more. He lifts the flagon, expecting mead, and takes a large gulp. The flavor that floods his tongue is wholly unexpected, though, and he makes a surprised noise and nearly chokes before looking down at the swirling translucent liquid in his cup. “Moktessa?” he asks once he catches his breath, staring down at the rare wine.

“Yeah, Torbjörn has a few bottles in his stores,” McCree says.

“How does a dwarf north of the Spine have several bottles of Moktessa?” Then, more importantly, “How can we  _ afford  _ a bottle of--?”

McCree lifts his own flagon but does not drink, side-eying him with a smile. “We can afford a bottle, and it’s all yours. I know how much you miss it.” He downs a healthy gulp of his own drink; a quick glance at the labels of the other bottles shows McCree is drinking Moonshae Moonshine, but Hanzo would not be surprised if he switched over to Firebrandy before long.

“Thank you,” Hanzo says, taking another sip and this time savoring the flavor of white grapes. He should probably argue that this is too much; they have survived well enough staying frugal with their funds, and even though they have had decent luck with bounties and treasure hunting they really should not be splurging as such. Hanzo nearly laughs at the thought; such a short time ago he would not have thought twice about such matters. “This place is far more welcoming than I expected,” he says, looking around.

“Ain’t it the truth. I half expected we’d be holdin’ up in some abandoned barn for the night, if we could even find one. Or another cave. Though I guess this is a bit like a cave, huh?” McCree says, gesturing to the stone walls.

“I have not seen anyone else here,” Genji mentions. “Is it not a rather large place for a single dwarf to run unassisted?”

“Wouldn’t say unassisted,” McCree replies.

As if on cue, the wooden door to the back rooms and cellar swings open and out steps Torbjörn. On his heels is another construct about his same height, a self-rolling cart with a set of arms on either side and two large gems on top. Both Torbjörn and the construct are laden down with food. “Oh good, you’re all here,” he says, ambling up. The construct squeaks along merrily after him. “How do you like that Moktessa, er...what was it again? Hanzo?”

“Yes,” Hanzo says, lifting his flagon in appreciation. “And it is a good vintage.”

“Good to hear, good to hear. Never cared for it myself. Don’t see how you drow drink it.” He clunks the tray he was carrying onto the table and starts setting out the contents from it and the construct: large hunks of Arabellan cheddar, Elturian gray, and Turmish brick. Snowbread muffins with yak butter. Honey infused with rosemary and thyme. Whole loaves of lemon and orange salbread. Freshly baked bouqthi, the rhubarb coloring the pastry and powdered sugar pink. Smoked salmon wrapped in carrot with fennel.

And something that has Hanzo and Genji sitting up at the sight of it. “Is that what I think it is?” Genji asks, pointing at a bowl of shriveled black and purple things.

“What in the Nine? Those look like lopped-off ears!” McCree exclaims, rearing back at the sight. “And they smell like kicked-up dirt!”

“Rock Ear fungus,” Torbjörn explains, setting the bowl down with a thump. “Thought you boys might like ‘em. Had a few lads in here months back that traded them for medical supplies. Help yourselves, those surely aren’t meant for those of us topside dwellers.”

Genji and Hanzo look from the bowl to each other, their eyes meeting for a long moment, a silent standoff before they both jerk forward and grab a handful. Their manners only kick in after they have both shoved far too many into their mouths, and Hanzo offers McCree a mushroom. “Naw, I think I’ll pass on that one,” McCree says, chuckling at the groan of happiness Genji makes while chewing on the rather squeaky sounding fungus. He grabs a snowbread muffin and breaks it in half. “Torbjörn, you’ve got yourself a right fine spread, here.”

“And there’ll be elk stew with root vegetables whenever you’re ready,” Torbjörn replies, putting the empty tray on the construct. The gems on its surface flicker and it wheels back the way it came. He looks to the warforged. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can get you?”

“I appreciate the gesture, but no,” Zenyatta says, hands folded serenely on the table before them. “As my companions are quick to point out, it just means more food for them.”

“What of repairs, Zenyatta?” Genji suggests. His hands are quickly going to work collecting food onto a plate. “Our host is obviously a specialist in constructs.”

Torbjörn laughs. “That is one way of putting it, I suppose.” He looks Zenyatta over, taking note of old damage to his arm, the frayed wood and cracked stone that is not quite in the right place anymore. “If you were anything else I’d direct you back to town for a cleric, but as it is, I might be more apt to lend you a hand. Or a claw, as it were.”

“If you would not be opposed,” Zenyatta says tentatively. Though his face is not prone to showing emotion, his hesitance is clear in his voice. “Though I am not sure what you are offering.”

“Proper treatment,” Torbjörn says. He holds out his normal hand and Zenyatta reluctantly puts his damaged arm in his grasp. Everyone watches intently as Torbjorn leans over the wounds, roughened fingers pushing the broken fragments back in place. He hums thoughtfully then grasps Zenyatta’s arm hard. The warforged jerks as if to get away but Torbjörn holds him firm. Bright orange light glows from where they touch, and the seams gleam as if Zenyatta’s insides are molten. An uncomfortable whimper sounds from his throat and Genji takes his other arm, holding him through it.

When the light fades, the damage is repaired. Where the cracks and seams were are black lines like cooled volcanic magma.

Zenyatta touches the scars like he cannot believe what he is seeing. Neither can the others, who stare at Torbjörn in shock. “You ain’t no normal innkeeper, are you?” McCree says.

“Innkeeping pays the bills,” Torbjörn replies proudly. “And gives me time to practice my craft. I am an oracle of metals, you see.”

“You have a gift,” Zenyatta says, arm flexing with renewed strength. “And my thanks. I do not know how I can repay this.” 

“Just make sure your friends pay their tab, and we’ll be right as rain.”

 

\---

 

The evening is a fine one, full of good food and grand company. Their host joins them for a time, happy for the company even if Torbjörn is prone to friendly quarrels. He and McCree have a rousing debate about the state of the Dale, and then Torbjörn goes on at length about the gossip from Gern Malduhr. Seems Torbjörn has had some form of falling out with a good half the town about one slight or another. Says he would rather keep to himself and cater to those that deserve his time and wares.

The hour is late by the time Torbjörn rises from the table and he bids them a good night with instructions to leave everything as it is, he will clean up in the morning. They demolished the spread of food, an almost embarrassment of gluttony, but so very needed after weeks on the road. Conversation has fallen away to quiet tiredness. Soon after Genji heads to bed followed by Zenyatta, leaving just Hanzo and McCree sitting by the dying fire.

They have been careful not to be too obvious all night. As soon as they are alone, their eyes meet. The anticipation is heavy. “I was thinking about washing up,” McCree says before Hanzo can prattle with nervous. “Had Torbjörn warm a pot of water for us.”

Hanzo glances at the fire and sure enough a container hangs just off the rack, not in the flames enough to boil. “It has been a while.”

“Shall we, then?”

Hanzo waits as McCree pulls the water pot from the fire with a wrought iron hook and glove, then together they move up the stairs, Hanzo leading the way. They both see well enough in the dark so Hanzo does not bother with a lantern until they reach their room, lighting the one just inside the door. He can only hear faint murmurs from down the hall, and they disappear completely once he closes the door behind McCree.

“Here, let me,” Hanzo says when he realizes McCree is not sure where to put the pail. He clears space from the dresser top and sets down a mat to protect the wood. There are wash clothes in the drawers and a bar of soap that smells faintly of juniper and spruce. He grasps them in hand and it is only then that it really hits Hanzo that he and McCree are alone, alone with no interruptions coming, and if he is correct about to bathe together. “I-I do not remember the last time we had this luxury, do you? Perhaps it was in the Dale, but no, I think it was before then. In Neverwinter? It was the last time we had the chance to--”

He stutters to a halt when McCree’s hand cups Hanzo’s chin and gently turns his face so their eyes will meet. “Hanzo,” McCree says softly. “I don’t mean to make you nervous.”

“I am not nervous,” Hanzo replies a touch haughtily. His companion raises an eyebrow and he tilts his chin up more. “Not...very.”

“We don’t have to--”

“We most certainly have to.” The interjection makes McCree smile and Hanzo steps closer, putting his own hand on McCree’s shoulder. “It is not you I worry of, just the newness of it all. It will pass.” Swallowing, he nods to the bucket. “In the meantime, our bath will lose all its heat if we dally.”

“Sure you don’t want me to leave you to it? I don’t mind,” McCree offers.

Hanzo clicks his tongue and rolls his eyes. “Nonsense.” He steps away and back to the bucket, laying the cloths and soap by its side before beginning to unlace the top of his tunic. “If we are to lay together you are not about to ruin my bath by being filthy yourself.”

That gets a genuine laugh from the tiefling and he gets to work removing his overshirt and suspenders. “Far be it for me to sully a prince,” he teases.

“Back to that nickname, are we?” Hanzo asks, smiling. The name was a bit of a scourge on him when they first began traveling together, grating on his nerves as McCree threw it around sarcastically.

“It is a good tease, but no, I think there are far better names I could call you,” McCree replies. He extracts his wings and pulls his undershirt off to drop it in a pile to the side, leaving his chest bare. By now Hanzo is equally unclothed, and after they both kick off their boots it leaves just leathers and breeches.

Here Hanzo hesitates, another pregnant pause between them, before he steps close. “May I?” he asks, hands rising to the decorative belt buckle at McCree’s waist. He nods his assent and Hanzo deftly clicks it open before untying the laces behind it. McCree leans into him, strong hands coming up to squeeze at Hanzo’s hips, slide over the fabric to the middle, and tug open the row of buttons along his front.

They say nothing as they push the rest of their clothing over their hips and down their thighs to pool on the floor. The tiefling is big all over, it seems, and already filling out under Hanzo’s stare. Hanzo swallows and he can see McCree’s throat mimic the motion. It would be so easy to abandon the water and fall together as is, but the siren call of warm water and soap is too great to ignore.

Besides, bathing each other is far more erotic than Hanzo ever imagined it could be. They take turns dipping their wash clothes into the pail and dragging the soapy water across every inch of exposed skin on each other’s bodies. McCree carefully traces the curves of the muscles in Hanzo’s arms, the planes of his chest, brushing his nipples with the broad pads of his thumbs to make the drow arch into the touch. Hanzo pays special attention to the seam where McCree’s prosthetic meets his skin, and the soft skin where his wings meet the rest of his body, trailing the cloth down to the dip of his lower back. He seems particularly fascinated by the thick hair all over that gleams shiny and black after being washed.

Hanzo maintains his composure until he finds McCree kneeling before him, cleaning the strong muscles of his thighs. He leans forward and presses a lingering, open-mouthed kiss to flesh above Hanzo’s knee while a hand cups the metal that makes up his calf. “Jesse,” Hanzo rasps, pleads, dropping the cloth and bracing his hands on his broad shoulders.

“Shh,” McCree whispers, moving to lick the same kiss to Hanzo’s hip. He stands then and takes Hanzo’s mouth with his own, bringing their nude bodies together. Hanzo whimpers at the contact; his skin is cool from the room but McCree is just as warm as always. He is certain McCree will keep him that way the whole night.

Hanzo breaks their kiss only long enough to whisper, “Take me to bed, Jesse.”

McCree practically growls and tosses Hanzo onto the bed, the sturdy wood barely creaking under his weight. The linen and furs at his back feel unfairly soft against his damp skin. Hanzo looks up and McCree is staring at him with his red eyes, ruddy skin glowing in the dim light of the lantern. Demonic, Hanzo thinks. McCree looks otherworldly and entirely too beautiful. Hanzo beckons him closer and McCree wastes no more time, crawling over him and bringing their bodies flush.

“Hanzo,” McCree murmurs, leaning down to drag his dull fangs along the stretch of his tattooed shoulder. “Let me please you.”

Unable to answer thanks to the tightness in his throat, Hanzo nods. He drags his sharp nails through McCree’s hair and tries not to get nervous again. “What will you do?”

“Worship you,” McCree replies, sweeping those broad palms all over, touching Hanzo seemingly everywhere at once. “Bring you nothing but pleasure, until you cannot stand it anymore, until you are weak with it.” He brings his face up so Hanzo can see the wide smirk on his face. “Unless you would rather I keep quiet. You always told me to find something better to do than run my mouth.”

Hanzo’s eyes widen at the implication and he does not quite react to the kiss McCree gives him before leaving a hot trail of sucking kisses down his body. He does react when McCree pauses to lap at his nipples, pulling one between his teeth and tugging gently. His hands clumsily grasp at McCree’s head and Hanzo moans. “When I said that, this is not how I imagined you would take it.”

McCree releases the swollen flesh, switching to the other and nipping at him. “Do you object?”

“No, no, do not dare stop,” Hanzo whines, pushing at the shoulders under his palms.

McCree gets the idea and moves lower, lazily lapping his way down until Hanzo’s cock jabs the underside of his chin. He laughs, adjusting then licking him once from root to tip just to watch the way Hanzo arches with need. “You are more beautiful than you have a right to be, you know that?” Hanzo whines, so he continues, “I’ve imagined you many nights, but none of those thoughts do you justice.”

“Jesse,” Hanzo whines again, louder than he means to. He looks down pleadingly. “You may run your mouth as much as you like and I will listen raptly.  _ After.”  _

He laughs, a touch cruelly, and Hanzo nearly thinks the tiefling will leave him like this. But not his McCree. “Very well,” he says, and swallows him completely.

Hanzo cries out before he thinks to muffle the noise, then shoves his fist against his mouth. By the Gods, McCree’s mouth is inhumanly hot and smooth. McCree devours him like he never had the meal downstairs, hungry for something only Hanzo can give. His slick tongue touches every inch of him, the suction so perfect that Hanzo is panting in moments, rocking up into the motion in minutes, fucking McCree’s mouth to chase that feeling. McCree takes it without complaint, not even when Hanzo grips one of his short horns and uses the leverage to pull McCree down on his cock faster.

It is over sooner than Hanzo would like, but McCree is relentless. He does not let up until Hanzo is choking on his own strangled shouts, body curling inward as he finds his release. McCree laps at him afterward, cleaning him of every drop until Hanzo is batting his face away. “Too much,” he whispers, breathless. “Too much, no more.”

McCree’s laugh is raspy from the abuse he took and it sends a lovely jolt of arousal through Hanzo. The tiefling gets to his feet so he can fetch a towel to clean his face, then returns to the bed. His arousal still hangs heavy and thick between his legs. “How’re you feelin, darlin’?”

“Hedonistic,” Hanzo says with a lazy smile. He pushes himself up onto an elbow and turns into McCree to for a kiss. “That mouth is quite talented,” he says once he has McCree breathless.

“Some people say it’s my best feature,” McCree quips.

“Hmm.” A dark hand drags down McCree’s front to take him in hand, and the bigger man groans at the firm grip. “But you have so many good features.”

McCree gasps into Hanzo’s hair as the drow begins to stroke. “Oh yeah?”

“Yes. And for the record.” Hanzo leans back enough to catch McCree’s eye. “That mouth, and all your other features, are mine.”

Red eyes flutter closed under Hanzo’s intense gaze. “Nine Hells, I love when you get possessive,” he moans, pulling Hanzo in so he can press against the drow’s thigh.

Hanzo loses his rhythm somewhere around the time McCree rolls him onto his back and straddles him. Words become meaningless with mouths slotted together, and they are reduced to nothing but mindless rutting. Hanzo hardens again under the assault; it has been far too long since he shared the company of another, even longer since he enjoyed it. He could never have dreamed for something, someone as perfect as this.

Hands roaming McCree’s back, Hanzo wraps his fingers around the sensitive connection to McCree’s wings and the tiefling jolts. For a half second Hanzo thinks he was too rough with the appendages. But no, McCree whines at the touch and thrusts against Hanzo in retaliation. Their eyes meet and Hanzo knows it is the beginning of the end. Gripping tighter, he massages the muscles along McCree’s spine then drags his nails over the base of his wings.

“Hanzo!” McCree hisses out, barely a warning before he comes in the valley of Hanzo’s thighs. Taking himself in hand, Hanzo strokes himself with the vision of McCree pleasure-drunk above him, and follows shortly after.

They lay limp and boneless for long minutes while the mess cools between them. It is only the hard shiver that racks Hanzo’s frame that gets McCree moving. “Sorry, darlin’, let me clean you up,” he says, getting his weight up and off the smaller man.

Washing off with the chilly water just makes Hanzo want to get under the furs faster. Soon enough they are both clean and bundled beneath the blankets, wrapped as completely around each other as two can be. Hanzo tucks his head under McCree’s chin to chase even more of his warmth. As tired as they are Hanzo fights to stay awake, not wanting it to end. “Tell me this was not a dalliance on your part,” he whispers, fingers tightening on McCree’s back.

“Never,” McCree replies, his strong fingers carding so carefully through Hanzo’s dark hair. “It’s like you said, darlin’. I’m yours.” He kisses Hanzo’s forehead. “Have been for a while, now. Just waitin’ for you to see it.”

Hanzo smiles and nuzzles the hair along McCree’s throat. “We shall have to tell the others.”

“Your brother will be unbearable. You know he’s been hopin’ for this for ages.”

“He has?” Hanzo asks, surprised.

“Been diggin’ at me to ask for months.” McCree chuckles, hand dropping down to stroke at Hanzo’s back. “I don’t know if you know this, Hanzo, but you are a mite intimidatin’ when you want to be.”

Hanzo laughs until it turns into a yawn. “And you are far too charming for your own good, Jesse.” He closes his eyes and sighs. “We should stay a few days to get our strength back. It is a long journey across the Spine.”

“Hmm.” McCree sounds just as tired as he does. Though he does have energy to say slyly, “I can think of a few things to occupy our time.”

“I bet you can, gunslinger,” Hanzo replies with a grin. “I bet you can.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you like that and want more, want to check out my art, or just want to chat, come on by my tumblr! You can find me under username wyntera. And if twitter is more your game, come and join me there, just look for @ThreeCatDesigns.
> 
> And hey. Thanks.


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